On a recent flight from Dallas to Orlando, a middle-aged man wearing a sea foam Margaritaville T-shirt sat down next to me. As the plane approached the runway we made small talk. His name was Bob and he lives in Cocoa Beach. I told him I live in Kansas city. He smiled and nodded. We both napped during the cramped, Eastbound flight.
An hour later, the overhead chime sounded and we both groggily awoke and prepared for landing. Over the whir of the engines, we exchanged the following dialogue.
Bob: Where in Tennessee did you say you’re from?
Me: (shaking my head) Not Tennessee. Kansas City.
Bob: (with a furrowed brow) Where?
Me: (louder and with lots of enunciation) KAN-SAS CIT-Y.
Bob: Oh… Pause … Is that close to Memphis?
Pause
Bob: Is that close to Memphis?
Me: (smiling) Yes.